He was reunited with his constant companion. Fear. He watched in slow motion as they came from across the road like two great gladiators of old. Caught in tunnel vision he looked up into their eyes and saw a fury that cut to the core of him. A young brown face had eyebrows curved in anger, a young white face marked with a scar, had eyes that spoke death by association. Right then and there he wished he could be anywhere else in the world, anywhere else but here. “I swear you’re with Mystro and the PNY youts”
He didn’t answer, the kinetic energy of adrenaline pulsed through his body, the choice of fight or flight was uncertain to him. “What you talking for Klutch, come we set pace on this dumb yout.” They answered his uncertainty, moving towards him with speed, Klutch, the bigger of the two, punched Jerry with a powerful blow that instantly sent the younger boy to the floor. The roses he held scattered, petals crimson like a dying day now added their beauty to the dirt of London’s streets.
He reached out towards the beauty that was stolen but felt pain as Nike Air Max 97’s stamped his back, leg, and outstretched hand, but it was nothing like the pain he felt as he watched the silver 97’s with black highlights stamp upon a rose.
Time went still and he remembered back to the time of sitting within the mecca of Smillie’s black tinted BMW M6. He’d been absorbing the aromas of smoke so loud, that his head spun as if a separate entity to his body. During the time there the conversation turned to that of his known ritual of the scars, as he’d told Jerry, “You can’t let no boy take you for a punk out here, as punks don’t last long on these roads and I ain’t having no punks around me...
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